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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408389" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnets on the Discovery of Botany Bay by Captain Cook</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The First Attempt to Reach the Shore</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Where is the painter who shall paint for you,<br>My Austral brothers, with a pencil steeped<br>In hues of Truth, the weather-smitten crew<br>Who gazed on unknown shores—a thoughtful few—<br>What time the heart of their great Leader leaped<br>Till he was faint with pain of longing? New<br>And wondrous sights on each and every hand,<br>Like strange supernal visions, grew and grew<br>Until the rocks and trees, and sea and sand,<br>Danced madly in the tear-bewildered view!<br>And from the surf a fierce, fantastic band<br>Of startled wild men to the hills withdrew<br>With yells of fear! Who’ll paint thy face, O Cook!<br>Turned seaward, “after many a wistful look!”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Second Attempt, Opposed by Two of the Natives</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>“There were but two, and we were forty! Yet,”<br>The Captain wrote, “that dauntless couple throve,<br>And faced our wildering faces; and I said<br>‘Lie to awhile!’ I did not choose to let<br>A strife go on of little worth to us.<br>And so unequal! But the dying tread<br>Of flying kinsmen moved them not: for wet<br>With surf and wild with streaks of white and black<br>The pair remained.”— O stout Caractacus!<br>’Twas thus you stood when Caesar’s legions strove<br>To beat their few, fantastic foemen back—<br>Your patriots with their savage stripes of red!<br>To drench the stormy cliff and moaning cove<br>With faithful blood, as pure as any ever shed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">III</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Spot Where Cook Landed</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Chaotic crags are huddled east and west—<br>Dark, heavy crags, against a straitened sea<br>That cometh, like a troubled soul in quest<br>Of voiceless rest where never dwelleth rest,<br>With noise “like thunder everlasting.”<br>But here, behold a silent space of sand!—<br>Oh, pilgrim, halt!—it even seems to be<br>Asleep in other years. How still! How grand!<br>How awful in its wild solemnity!<br>This is the spot on which the Chief did land,<br>And there, perchance, he stood what time a band<br>Of yelling strangers scoured the savage lea.<br>Dear friend, with thoughtful eyes look slowly round—<br>By all the sacred Past ’tis sacred ground.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Sutherland’s Grave</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>’Tis holy ground! The silent silver lights<br>And darks undreamed of, falling year by year<br>Upon his sleep, in soft Australian nights,<br>Are joys enough for him who lieth here<br>So sanctified with Rest. We need not rear<br>The storied monument o’er such a spot!<br>That soul, the first for whom the Christian tear<br>Was shed on Austral soil, hath heritage<br>Most ample! Let the ages wane with age,<br>The grass which clothes this grave shall wither not.<br>See yonder quiet lily! Have the blights<br>Of many winters left it on a faded tomb?<br>Oh, peace! Its fellows, glad with green delights,<br>Shall gather round it deep eternal bloom</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Kendall">Henry Kendall</a><div class=q>
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Where is the painter who shall paint for you,
My Austral brothers, with a pencil steeped
In hues of Truth, the weather-smitten crew
Who gazed on unknown shores—a thoughtful few—
What time the heart of the..."></div>
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